Who are you curiously reading this poem of mine, a hundred years from now?
Will you be able to evaporate into a whole other universe
Will my present be a ripple in your now,
Will you know how to appreciate the simpler things of life, not your simple, but my past simple things.
Like the laughter lines and wrinkles, do you just see those in photographs, or are those gone too?
Will you know the innocence and purity of untainted youth, or has that become the new addiction turned sin?
100 years from now, is my neon another shade of grey?
Does fear turn your dreams into ashen filled skies, and block out the stars?
Do you even know it?
Have you stared at it, and taken in it’s appearance, memorized it so you would know how to properly set the next trap for it, so that you wouldn’t have to worry about which direction it was coming from?
Did you even realize that it’s not something that you can just ensnare, and hold in your own two hands,
Or map out along the roads that you walk upon, and that there are certainly no signs to show you the way?
If you have met it, however, then has it told you that your own feet do not know how to take you to your final destination?
Has it told you to not believe in hope?
Because if so, it has been lying through blinking innocence and doe eyes and seemingly trusting hands playing children’s games on an adult’s court
Have you forgotten that there is stars beyond the ashen skies, and neons flashing in your mind?
So don’t listen to the fear that chills your bones on the hottest summer day
Because when it is 100 years from your now, and our bodies are one within casings holding us dear,
You will have realized that it was too late to let yourself get lost within the forests of your mind
So please, do not become consumed with the concept of the future
Or let your worries take over your mind, crawl in the spaces between hollowed out lung cavities, paper skin and glass bones because they cannot handle the damage you will have done
Your mind is a war zone that cannot be contained
Let it loose, don’t hold it back.
100 years from now, I am writing this to you with the hopes that you have not let Fear tell you what you can and cannot do, and that you have not let your worries sink in and between the spaces of those glass bones,
because you are a fucking treasure.
You may be hidden under mountains of sand, but one day 100 years from my now, you will have been found, and it will feel miraculous.
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